


Chaji

by Roo_Bastmoon



Category: Honou no Miraju | Mirage of Blaze
Genre: M/M, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-23 07:01:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/923353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roo_Bastmoon/pseuds/Roo_Bastmoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kagetora and Naoe share tea and regrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chaji

Kagetora turns the tea bowl in his hands; it’s just shy of scalding hot. He watches Naoe pour for himself and replace the shiny bronze kettle on the stove. The kitchen is dark, but for the streetlamps’ light, pouring through the slabs of the window blinds.

The house is quiet; his sister’s at a slumber party. Rain falls quietly, sloshing softly —swiiiiiish—whenever a random car drives by. He can almost hear the tick of the clock in the hall.

Kagetora looks down at the black liquid and remembers. The scent of green tea always reminds him of fall. Red and orange leaves. A chill in the air, wafting down from the mountains. Long robes wrapped around him. And Naoe, never far off.

All his memories are back now.

“Kagetora-sama,” Naoe murmurs. As if a human voice at normal volume would just break him to pieces.

He does not look up. There’s little point, since Naoe will continue to press, like he always does.

“Kagetora-sama.” The older man sets his tea bowl down on the counter—the clack of clay on the tiles is startling—and turns to go. “It’s late. I shall return to the hotel.”

“I don’t remember dismissing you, Naoe,” he whispers, leaning forward and blowing on his tea.

Naoe freezes.

Kagetora’s lips curve ever so slightly—can’t be helped. Some things never change.

“Was there something else you wanted?” Naoe asks hesitantly. As if he can’t quite trust Kagetora.

He pins the older man with a cold stare. “There is nothing you have that I want.”

Naoe stiffens, those broad shoulders tense underneath that expensive brown suit. “Then I shall return.”

He watches the man head out of the kitchen and panic wells up in him. “Sit,” he says harshly. He kicks out the chair beside him and jerks his head a half-inch to the right. It’s all the invitation Naoe’s going to get.

It’s all that’s necessary.

Naoe sits, folding his hands, eyebrows knit, eyes wary, studying Kagetora’s face. The attention both pleases and unnerves him.

“Kagetora-sama?” Concern now. Because Naoe’s caught on. There’s something he wants to discuss, but he can’t find the words. The words got lost at the bottom of a four-hundred-year-deep well; the water’s dark and cloudy like his tea; if he has to sit in this quiet house one more second, alone, he’ll drown in the past.

“Do you have dreams, Naoe?” He turns his bowl again. Still too hot to drink.

“I assume you don’t mean aspirations for the future?” Naoe sighs.

Kagetora laughs. A future? Naoe’s future is etched boldly for all to see—he will be at Kagetora’s heel, like the obedient dog he is. Since when did a dog have aspirations?

Naoe sighs again. It produces a strange ache in Kagetora’s chest and he quashes it before it can fester into something like pity.

“Sometimes. I dream.” Naoe’s looking at Kagetora’s hands now as they cup his drink, letting the warmth bleed into his skin. The older man shivers. “It usually isn’t pleasant.”

“I would expect not.” He sips. Scalds his tongue, but he doesn’t so much as flinch.

“You’ve burned your mouth.” Naoe clucks at him.

Kagetora raises an eyebrow. He shouldn’t be surprised, but he is.

“Why do you keep me here, my lord?” Strained—has Naoe reached the end of his control so quickly?

“I have dreams . . .” he trails off, focused on the distance.

Naoe leans forward. “Nightmares?”

He smiles. Shrugs. A matter of perspective. “I dream of a flute. Of the sea. Of you . . .”

A gasp—how careless of Naoe—and then the scrape of that chair across the floor. “Kagetora-sama?” Naoe crouches, not quite able to work up the courage to actually touch him, but close.

“I see you in a blue kimono. It has . . . violet flowers at the shoulder. You’re smiling at me. I’m happy. You hold a finger to my lips.” He presses his forefinger to the dent on Naoe’s upper lip. “And then . . . then your hands come around my neck.” Absently he strokes his own throat; watches as Naoe’s eyes hungrily follow the movement. “You choke me. I wake up gasping.” He clenches his fist.

Naoe’s trembling now. It gives him some satisfaction, but it also raises the hairs on the back of his neck.

“Fuck you,” Naoe hisses.

For a second, he’s stunned speechless.

“You always do this to me. And I let you. I let you.”

“Na—”

He’s pulled to the floor—it’s cold and hard on his back—Naoe’s overtop of him, shaking uncontrollably, glaring at him. Strong hands are planted, flat-palmed, on either side of his head. He can smell Naoe’s aftershave, even catch the scent of fresh cotton from his shirt. He can feel the pulsing heat under that suit. He stares up at Naoe and thinks about how the salt of those tears might taste, as they slide down Naoe’s cheeks.

Kagetora leans up slightly, pulling Naoe’s head down, and licks a rigid cheekbone. Naoe stills as he tastes.

“Mm.”

Fingers in his hair then, pulling him back. The kiss comes fast and hard, teeth scraping a bit before Naoe’s tongue licks into his mouth, and he doesn’t resist. Not yet. Not yet. Just a little bit more, and then he’ll cut Naoe off cold; this dance is second nature by now.

But then Naoe settles between his legs, down into the cradle of his hips, and he’s shocked to find himself hard. He wrenches his face away and starts to push on the older man’s chest, and Naoe groans, “I hate you.”

Nothing. Hurts. More.

“Good, then,” he says huskily. “Hate me all you like. But follow me.”

Naoe chokes back a sob. They’re both tense, blood pounding in their lower waists, it would be so easy to thrust up and soothe the ache . . .

“Follow me. Obey me.” Kagetora yanks Naoe’s head up. “Let. Me. Go.”

“One day . . .” Naoe starts, gathering himself up onto his hands and knees. “One day, I hope you know what it feels like to be this powerless. To be utterly defeated. One day, I hope you fly apart, fade away, dissolve into nothing. Then I’ll be free.”

Kagetora blinks. It sounds as if Naoe wishes his soul would just expire.

He reaches up, ghosting his hand down Naoe’s face, and smiles because it’s like Naoe slid a knife between his ribs. Why does he keep pushing this man to hurt him? Why does he need the pain?

“You want freedom?” he grates out. “Take it. You’re not a slave. Go. Live a full and rich life, Nobutsuna. I dare you.” He laughs. “I can’t even imagine it. Do you have any sense of self, without me to shape you? I am your container. Your ochawan.”

Strong hands wrap around his throat and oh, it’s like coming home. He closes his eyes and silently compels Naoe to squeeze. Squeeze. Squeeze, dammit.

But Naoe just leans down and kisses him. Softly. Reverently.

No, don’t give him tenderness. It’s a cruel trick. Tenderness is a trap.

“I love you,” Naoe whispers. “Against my will. It will never let me go. And so . . . I will never let you go.”

Naoe holds him down, but it hardly matters, because he isn’t fighting anymore.

Naoe kisses him, deep, soulful kisses that steal his breath and make him dizzy and feverish.

Naoe unbuttons his shirt and laves at his chest, licks a hot trail to the crotch of his pants.

Naoe mouths his hardness, cups him, rubs in circles, over and over and over until he’s panting and moaning.

Naoe covers him with that strong, whip-wire body, parts his legs, and thrusts slowly.

It’s not like before.

No one laughs at him. It doesn’t hurt. He needs it to hurt in order for him to escape. But Naoe pins him with tenderness. With whispers and caresses. With his sickening, stale love.

And he’s crying, hitching sobs, his arms wrapping around Naoe’s shoulders, fingernails raking down the man’s back, urging him onward all the while begging, “Don’t let me, don’t let me . . .”

“Saburo . . .” Naoe’s breath is ragged, his voice gone hoarse. His full weight now pushes down on Kagetora, maddening and exquisite when he grinds his hips—Kagetora’s slender cock twitches, pulses.

He sobs into Naoe’s mouth, sucks in air through his nose, grips the swell of Naoe’s ass and bucks up, again and again and again, drinking in Naoe’s excited groans and then he’s falling, sinking, and it’s warm and staining wet, coating the inside of his trousers. Naoe’s not far behind, the sound of his orgasm dragged up from somewhere deep and agonized.

Kagetora’s arms are open and ready when Naoe collapses on top of him, panting. “I hate you,” he whispers sweetly into Naoe’s ear.

Naoe swallows. “I know.”

“I’ll never forgive you,” he hisses, nails digging half-moons into Naoe’s lower back.

“I know.”

He’s about to tell Naoe to get out, when the older man pulls back and stares at him—complete adoration and a calm sort of acceptance there, behind the gloss of tears. Naoe kisses his forehead and it couldn’t have been worse if he’d kicked Kagetora in the gut.

The older man stands up, adjusts his soiled pants, and grabs him up by the collar. He plants Kagetora back in the chair and pushes the tea bowl in front of him. “Wait too much longer and it will get cold, Kagetora-sama.”

“Get out.”

Naoe ignores him, silently padding over to the counter to take up his own drink. He sits back down at the table and sips.

“Get. Out.” He’s beyond infuriated.

“Kick me as much as you like, my lord.” Naoe casts him a sideways glance. “I’ve long since learned my place.”

He’s not sure what to do with that. He looks down at his tea. His throat is dry. He’s blushing from the . . . the sex. The amazing sex . . . His come is cooling, sliding down his leg. He’s dazed. “Get out,” he manages weakly.

“Are you tired?” Naoe asks softly.

Past bearing, he wants to say.

Naoe closes his eyes. “I will watch over your sleep. Keep those dreams at bay.”

“Naoe . . .” He hangs his head.

“Drink your tea.”

If only to avoid more conversation, he takes a sip. Winces. “It’s cold,” he says to Naoe.

“Yes.” Naoe smiles wistfully. “I know.”


End file.
